Chapter Text
He was drowning, but no one noticed.
Not in water—not really. But in something heavier. Something slower. A kind of sadness that clung to his skin like wet clothes, dragging at his limbs with every step. He’d learned how to smile with it. How to laugh just enough. How to be quiet in ways that made people think he was just calm, not gasping for air.
Every day felt like swimming against something invisible. The way everyone else moved so easily, spoke so freely, loved so loudly—it made him feel like he had weights around his ankles. He watched them, these people he called family, these people who loved each other out loud. They tossed each other lifelines and warm glances, and he sat there, water rising, saying nothing.
Because what do you say?
"Help, I feel alone in rooms full of people?"
"I'm scared the version of me you love is one I made up?"
"I'm so tired of treading water, pretending I’m okay."
Some mornings, he woke up already breathless. Chest tight. Eyes burning. It felt like he was underwater even then, trying to scream but only bubbles came out. He would sit at the breakfast table, hands folded, back straight, eyes dry. They would talk around him. Through him. Over him.
He wondered how many times he’d have to disappear before someone asked where he went.
He smiled when they passed him the butter. Said thank you when someone bumped his shoulder. But inside, he was flailing, sinking, begging.
And no one saw.
Because the drowning ones are always the quietest.
That night, the world was too quiet.
The kind of quiet that presses into your ears until you can’t hear your own thoughts without them sounding like screaming. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks like constellations. Pretending they meant something. Pretending he didn’t feel like a ghost under his own skin.
The sheets were too cold. Or maybe he was.
He turned on his side. Then his back. Then his other side. It didn’t matter—there was no position that made his chest hurt less. It wasn’t physical pain, not really. Just that familiar ache, like his ribs had forgotten how to stretch around a heart so heavy.
He thought about texting someone.
But what do you even say?
“Hey, I feel like I’m slipping under and I don’t think I care anymore?”
“Do you ever wish you could just disappear—not to hurt anyone, but just to stop being a weight?”
“Would it matter if I was gone by morning?”
He didn’t send anything.
He just scrolled. And scrolled. Watching happy people pretend they weren’t sad. Watching sad people joke like it wasn’t killing them. It was easier than talking. Easier than asking to be seen. Because what if he asked and no one looked?
At some point, the phone slipped from his fingers.
He stared at the ceiling again. Let the silence flood in.
And in his mind, he was back underwater. Cold, dark, slow. He didn’t struggle anymore. Didn’t reach for the surface. He just floated, eyes open, lungs full. Everything muffled. Everything still.
He imagined what it would feel like to let go.
Not die. Just… stop.
Stop pretending. Stop performing. Stop being the version of himself that made everyone comfortable.
Tears burned his eyes, but didn’t fall. They never did anymore. It was like even his sadness was tired. He curled into himself, pressing his face into the pillow, muffling the sound of his own breathing like it was a secret.
And somewhere deep inside, barely a whisper:
Please… someone see me.
But the house stayed quiet.
And he kept drowning in the dark.
It was morning again
The alarm didn't wake him. He’d already been awake.
Lying there, unmoving, eyes dry but aching, watching the soft gray light crawl through the crack in the curtains. It was too early to be up, but too late to pretend he slept. His body felt like it was made of stone—heavy, cold, and impossible to carry.
He heard the house waking up before he moved.
Footsteps. Laughter. The clatter of breakfast dishes. A voice calling for the youngest to hurry up. Another saying, “Did you see what your brother posted?” Excitement. Movement. Life.
None of it for him.
He dragged himself up. The floor was cold against his feet. The kind of cold that reminded you you're still here, even if you wish you weren't. He shuffled to the mirror in the hallway. Stared at himself. His eyes were empty. The kind of emptiness you can’t fake. He tried to smile, just to see if he still could.
He couldn’t.
Downstairs, no one noticed when he came in.
No one asked if he slept. No one asked why his eyes were red, or why he wasn’t eating. They were too busy talking over each other. The youngest was showing off a drawing. The oldest was bragging about something again—some achievement, some praise, some new thing to add to their endless list of “look how proud we are.”
He sat at the table in silence, spoon in hand, cereal going soggy. No one looked at him. No one asked.
He was there, but not present. Alive, but not seen.
Just the middle child. The forgotten one. Not old enough to be the leader. Not young enough to be the baby. Just there.
Floating.
“Can someone pass the juice?” he asked.
No one heard him.
So he passed it to himself.
They talked about plans. They joked. Their laughter stabbed him in the chest—not because he didn’t want them to be happy, but because they didn’t even notice how broken he was. How loud his silence had become.
He thought about saying something. Just a whisper. Just a cry.
“I’m not okay.”
But he knew how it would go.
They’d say he was being dramatic. That it was just a phase. That he needed to be more grateful, more positive, more something. He’d be told he had it easier than the others. That he was loved—just not in the way he needed.
So he swallowed it. Like always.
He went back to his room without a word. Closed the door. Sat on the floor with his back against it and pressed his palms to his eyes until stars sparked behind them.
He wasn't angry. He wasn’t even sad anymore.
He was just… empty.
Stuck in the loop.
Wake up. Smile. Be invisible. Go to sleep. Drown quietly.
Repeat.
And maybe one day, when he’s gone, they’ll finally hear the silence and realize it was screaming the whole time.
But for now, the world kept spinning.
And he stayed still.
Later that day
He sat by the window, knees drawn to his chest, watching the sky shift in shades no one else ever seemed to notice. Somewhere in the house, his youngest sibling was being called "sweetheart" in a warm tone, soft and full of ease. Laughter echoed from another room—something the oldest said, probably. Their laughter always filled space. It belonged. It was invited.
He pressed his forehead to the glass, cool against his skin.
He didn’t want to be loved because he was good.
Not because he did his chores without being asked. Not because he got decent grades, or kept the peace, or didn’t need reminders. Not because he was “easy to raise.”
He wanted to be loved just because he was.
Because he existed.
Because he breathed.
Because when he walked into a room, someone’s eyes lit up—not with relief that he was responsible, not with pride in how he handled things, but with joy. With something that said: you are wanted here. You, not your usefulness.
But he wasn’t the youngest, who got cradled in softness.
He wasn’t the oldest, who got showered in admiration.
He was the middle.
The steady one. The reliable one. The one who didn’t ask for much, so no one offered more. The one who knew the schedules, remembered the birthdays, noticed when everyone else was tired—but was too often left unnoticed himself.
Affection came in glances.
In nods.
In passing touches that vanished too quickly to hold onto. Like trying to cup water in your hands. Like trying to believe that something fleeting could count as real.
Praise felt more like assessment.
“You’re doing great.”
“You always keep things together.”
“You’re so mature.”
Warmth felt like obligation.
Not spontaneous.
Not given freely.
They loved him, he knew. They must. Right?
But he couldn’t feel it.
Not like how the others got it—bold, loud, easy to see.
He got the spaces between. The pauses. The polite kind of love.
And when they laughed, when they curled into each other on the couch, sharing stories he wasn’t part of, inside jokes that never included him—he laughed, too.
But the sound didn’t land.
It floated. Hollow. Performed.
A mimicry of what they had. A sound to fill the silence they never noticed in him.
The ache of invisibility sat heavy in his chest. A weight built over years of being steady, silent, strong. A weight pressed down by every smile not meant for him. Every conversation that skipped over him. Every time he gave more than he got, and called it balance.
He wanted someone to look at him and see him.
Not what he did.
Not what he managed.
Not what he carried.
Him.
The boy who still held onto handmade birthday cards long after the glitter faded. The boy who stayed up late wondering what was wrong with him, why love didn’t land the same way it landed for the others. The boy who made everyone else’s world a little warmer, and sat alone in the cold of his own.
And he wanted someone—just one person—to wrap their arms around him and whisper, “You don’t have to earn this.”
But no one did.
So he pressed his forehead to the glass. Let the sky blur behind his breath. And whispered it to himself.
Even if he didn’t believe it.
Yet.
It was night again
It started in the shower.
Steam filled the room, curling around the edges of the mirror. The water ran hot, too hot, burning against his skin—but he didn’t flinch. He let it scald. Let it soak through his hair, down his spine. Let it try to reach whatever part of him still felt like it could be touched.
He stood there unmoving, eyes closed, mouth shut. His chest rose and fell too fast.
Then slower.
Then faster again.
A tightness curled around his ribs like iron. He put a hand against the tile, gripping it until his knuckles went white. The roar of the water matched the roar in his ears. He couldn’t breathe. Not really. Not the kind that counts. Not the kind that fills you.
It felt like he was sinking again.
Not in water.
In air.
In life.
In everything.
His mind spiraled—memories, words, missed moments all crashing into each other like waves in a storm.
"You’re so quiet."
"Why can’t you be more like your brother?"
"Oh, I didn’t even see you there."
The words weren't knives. They were pebbles.
One at a time, harmless.
But they built.
Until he was buried under them.
He dropped to the floor of the shower, knees folding beneath him, forehead against the tile. The water hit the back of his neck and ran over him like rain on a statue.
No tears came.
He was too tired.
Too empty.
But inside, he was screaming.
He was begging for someone—anyone—to knock on the door, to ask if he was okay, to sit on the other side of the wall and say, “You’re not alone.”
But no one came.
Because no one noticed.
Because no one looked.
He was the middle child.
The one who didn’t make a scene.
The one who didn’t slam doors.
The one who smiled when he was supposed to.
The one who held it all in.
Until now.
He let the water run until it went cold.
Until his fingertips were wrinkled and his legs had fallen asleep.
Until his heart stopped racing and started sinking again.
Until the weight was too much, and he had to stand—just to not drown sitting down.
He toweled off, slow, mechanical. Put on his pajamas. Crawled into bed without a sound.
No one asked where he’d been.
No one noticed he’d disappeared for an hour.
No one knocked on his door.
The room was dark.
He curled up small.
Tried to breathe slow.
Tried to tell himself he wasn’t drowning.
That it was just water.
That tomorrow would be better.
That maybe—somehow—someone would finally see him.
But all he heard was the silence.
And all he felt was the tide, pulling him under again.